ut the mown area
was narrow and the machine quickly jerked through it and made the last
easy journey along the wall of untouched devilgrass beyond.

The gardener, without hesitation, aimed his machine at the thicket of
grass. It growled, slowed, coughed, spat, struggled and thrashed on and
finally conked out.

"Ah," said Miss Francis.

"Oh," said the spectators.

"Sonofabitch," said the gardener.

He yanked the grumbling mower back angrily, inspecting its mechanism in
the manner of a mother with a wayward son and began again. There was
desperate determination in his shoulders as he added his forward thrust
to the protesting rhythm. The machine went at the grass like a bulldog
attacking a borzoi: it bit, chewed, held on. It cut a new six inches
readily, another foot slowly--and then with jolts and misfires and loud
imprecations from the gardener, it gave up again.

"You," judged Mrs Dinkman, "don't know how to cut grass."

The gardener wiped his sweaty forehead with the inside of his wrist.
"You--you should have a law against you," he answered bitterly and
inadequately.

But the crowd evidently agreed with Mrs Dinkman's verdict, for there
were mutterings of "It's a farmer's job." "Get somebody with a scythe."
"That's right--get a scythe." "Got to have a scythe to cut hay like
that." These remarks, uttered loudly enough for him to hear, so
discouraged the gardener that after three more futile tries he reloaded
his equipment and left amidst jeers and expressions of disfavor without
attempting to collect any of the money.

For some reason the failure of the powermower lightened the atmosphere.
Everyone, including Mrs Dinkman, seemed convinced that scything was the
solution. Tension relaxed and the bystanders began talking in something
above a whisper.

_6._ "This will just about ruin our sales," I said.

Miss Francis suspended the toothpick before her chin and looked at me as
though I'd said dirty words in the presence of ladies.

"Well it will," I argued. "You can't expect people to have their lawns
inoculated if they find out it's going to make grass act this way."

Her eyes might have been microscopes and I something smeared on a slide.
"Weener, youre the sort of man who peddles _Life Begins at Forty_ to the
inmates of an old peoples' home."

I couldnt see what had upset her. The last idea had sound salesappeal,
but it was a low income market.... Oh well--her queer notions and
obscure reactions undoub